


The Greenhouse Effect

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Rick Grimes, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 00:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: The apocalypse broke everyone, bent them so far out of shape they all just snapped clean in half. Rick's made of a different material, flexible and durable, damn near unbreakable; and where everyone else snapped, he allowed himself to be re-molded into something new. He adapted. Now look at the world, look at how he does things, and try to say he's wrong.He might be the only thing in this fucked up world that's actually exactly right.





	The Greenhouse Effect

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags, please. 
> 
> Please note it's basically porn with some darker plot. It's still all an excuse for porn. Everything always is.

It's a pretty boring day in late summer, around the end of August if anybody can tell time right anymore. The last remnants of a heat wave well in the nineties are turning the remaining alive inhabitants of good old Alexandria, Virginia sluggish and lazy. Even the sad little breeze doesn't help all that much, especially with the way the whole place is shielded from the wind's dubiously refreshing presence by the ever-vigilant concrete wall every-fucking-where. It’s been days since last rain and everyone’s been whispering about a storm coming, but so far it’s proven to be nothing but wishful thinking. 

In the middle of the early afternoon of yet another breathless day, Rick Grimes reclines on a recently restored, majorly uncomfortable park bench set in his backyard, waiting for Daryl to return from the house with drinks and, hopefully, some ice cream. Absently, he's wondering if it used to be just as unbearable in summer back in the days before the world went to shit. It must’ve been, it must’ve been even worse in the South than up here. Rick can vaguely recall a particularly bad week once upon a July when the air con died in what seemed like half the city, sheriff’s office included. He spent the whole time holed up in the patrol car with Shane, drinking iced lattes and talking about girls. Well, Shane talked and Rick listened, as always. It was fun. Those days, they still knew how to have fun.

Memories aside, Rick is restless. Thing is, it sucks, this heat, this motionlessness. It's like he's stuck in place because he feels time slipping between his fingers, but all the same, he's too done with everything to even care. Honestly, how much longer until the summer ends? Rick really wants to see some action, wants to do things. There’s so much needs to be done around Alexandria, around the other settlements, there’s so much of the world to conquer yet. And Rick’s going to do it. He’s going to do it all, he’s got to. 

Just, not now. It's too hot.

Daryl finally arrives with the refreshments Rick sent him to get a good half an hour ago. He took his fucking time, whatever the hell he was doing. The beer he brings is cool instead of cold and the popsicles are half-melted, but it's something. Rick doesn't even complain because he has no energy to talk. The list of things he currently does have the energy to do is pitifully short and contains Rick dying as one of the top positions. He just groans instead, hoping to convey his displeasure with the state of the offerings his best friend’s brought to him.

“Yer such a whiny piss-baby, Grimes,” Daryl mocks and spits out a piece of the plastic wrapper before he sucks on the popsicle for some sugary coolness.

Rick glares weakly somewhere in his general direction. “Fucker,” he says petulantly and reclines more comfortably on the bench. It's hard and unpleasantly hot against his overheated, bare skin. There's a moral conundrum in there somewhere, a dispute maybe, all clever and smart and everything. It’s about the pros and cons of wearing as little as possible while still remaining somewhat respectable as the leader within Alexandria walls, versus protecting one's self from third degree burns he’s sure to get as a result of coming into contact with a restored bench in his backyard of all fucking things. Rick shuts the argument in his head firmly down, already confused before he even entertains it. He’s not gonna wear a shirt in this hellish heat and that’s it: if he loses chunks of skin to the bench because of the reckless decision, so be it.

“Carol bothered me earlier,” he announces when Daryl makes no effort to reply to the half-assed insult. Looking up at his right-hand man who looks back at him from where he's leaning against the lamp post, cool like he's completely unaffected by this hell-like heat despite the sheen of sweat all over him, Rick has a nearly irrepressible urge to stick out his tongue at the man like a child. Just to match Daryl's insolence. Or something. But he doesn't. Instead, he speaks again, drawing out words in almost a parody of his usual drawl out of sheer laziness:

“She thinks she found a place we can hit. Big one, this time. Could make all the difference. Got no shortage of water. Well stocked. Only problem is, it’s way outta there, outside Roanoke. Three days trip at least.”

Daryl shrugs indifferently, either because he knows it's not his place to decide what they should hit and what they shouldn’t, or because he doesn't care. He’ll follow Rick’s lead either way, like he was born to do it. Like his sole purpose in life is to do whatever the fuck Rick Grimes asks him to do, no questions asked, no complaints raised. He’ll share his insight if asked, but he doesn’t volunteer it, like he doesn’t think his opinion matters. And yeah, he’s sort of right. In this place, in this world. it’s Rick who makes decisions, regardless of what anyone else thinks, regardless of what even Daryl thinks.

And yet.

Rick thinks about the time when he thought Daryl was lost forever, when he thought his best fucking friend got done by that Goddamn psycho with the baseball bat. He thinks about how he had to survive those six weeks, trapped back here in Alexandria within the claustrophobic walls, without the only person who could ever hope to talk him back into relative sanity. He's not entirely sure how he didn’t go even more mad than usual. Maybe the retaliation attack he planned and then led against Negan’s people was a good distraction; nothing like some old-fashioned vengeful mass murder to combat mind-numbing grief. Rick was unstoppable in his wrath just as he was inconsolable in his mourning, and so what if he acted like he was some maniac with a machete, completely fucked in the head? Whatever. His people knew that side of him already, so nobody was really that surprised. At the end of it, the Sanctuary fell on its knees before Rick Grimes of fucking Alexandria and Negan himself begged for mercy. He offered Rick his Daryl back, alive. Sure, the man was concussed and mildly traumatized from weeks of abuse, but mostly fine. No more broken than usual, at least.

It was like Daryl being alive was Rick’s reward for defeating the final boss and beating the game or something. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, Negan’s not a final boss, he’s not even a damn pawn. He’s nothing but a roach in the sea of sharks. Rick’s got plenty of bigger fish to fry before he’s done clearing the aquarium.

“Yer lookin' kinda dumb when ya think so much in this weather,” Daryl informs him. 

Rick punches him on the arm and doesn't duck when Daryl punches back. Why should he? There's no way Daryl would ever seriously hurt him. Others, sure, he might hurt others, he might even break some limbs off of people if they pissed him off enough. He’s considered hurting others in the family before if it could’ve been for the greater good. But not him. Not ever Rick, not even when Rick was close to hurting him.

Carol called them murder husbands once. She didn't even flinch when Rick glared at her half-heartedly, because she buried fear alongside her own sanity a long time ago, even before she chose to follow Rick to Hell and back. It's not like her words aren’t the least bit true, if only in the sense that both Rick and Daryl have committed a lot of murder in their time and they spend heaps of time bickering like an old married couple when they're not actually expected to agree on stuff. They usually agree on stuff, though. Or rather, Rick decides stuff and Daryl agrees with him. It works between them.

“Where the fuck’s that woman goin’ all the damn time, anyway?” Rick asks, lifting an arm to wipe away some sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He’s thinking of moving to Oceanside, maybe, at least for the time being. He’s sure Tara won’t mind. There’s enough space for an additional tent or even a little mud shack, and Rick’s pretty sure the women there not only wouldn’t mind his presence, but would also fall all over themselves to make sure his stay was comfortable. Women… do this a lot, lately. Like being a power-hungry, allegedly bloodthirsty dictator’s made Rick more attractive to the fairer sex, or something. 

Fuck, maybe Oceanside’s not a good idea after all. A little ocean breeze can’t be worth all the fuss.

“Dunno. I ain’t Carol’s keeper or anythin’, damn woman goes where she wants,” Daryl mutters, shrugging. He pushes away from the lamp post and settles down on the bench, sprawled next to Rick and taking entirely too much space for all the weight he’d lost in Negan’s captivity. Their sweaty arms are pressed together and Rick thinks he hates the clammy, tingling sensation of heat radiating from Daryl’s skin.

“You’re banging her though, aren’t you?” He asks and pokes Daryl’s shoulder. The man doesn’t take the hint, doesn’t move. If anything, he presses even closer into Rick’s space. Contrary fucker.

“Naw,” he says. “Ain’t my type. I ain’t hers neither, not really. She got her sights on Ezekiel, m’think. Dude‘s got the cool tiger an’ all.”

“What’s your type, then?” Rick wonders aloud. He sits up, chucks the empty popsicle tube into the trash can and sprawls back down. He turns his head to look at Daryl, assessing. He’s not much of a judge of male appearance - or female, for that matter, women don’t do it for him any more than men - but that doesn’t mean he’s blind. And from what he sees, he thinks Daryl Dixon’s really not the kind of guy to afford being picky with girls. Frankly, guy's one ugly son of a bitch. Not half as bad as his insufferable brother, of course, but still not a pretty sight. So okay, he’s not all ugly. His eyes are an interesting color, kinda like the sky before the storm hits, or like the ocean waves; and he’s got that beauty mark that’s not so bad even if it gives him a ridiculously sultry appearance for a dude with his visual appeal. And he’s got the shoulders and arms, so that’s working out for him, alright. The rest, though? His nose is stubby and crooked just a bit after it healed wrong from being broken sometime in the past. His stupid thin lips are perpetually stuck in an unfriendly, frowny grimace unless he’s smirking which is even worse, and his patchy beard is graying in random spots, making it look even more unkempt for some reason. And yeah, maybe their color is nice, but his eyes are still puffy and mean, and there’s a scar under one of them from when he was in Negan’s captivity that makes Rick want to punch him and bust the skin on the other side to give him some symmetry. He’s not aging all that well either, world-weariness, periods of insomnia and starvation all reflected in the lines of his face. At least he’s got the long hair to hide all that from view so nobody has to look at him too long. 

So, yup, he’s ugly. Rick would still do him in a heartbeat, hard, fast and hot. Not because he’s gay or attracted to him, not any stupid nonsense like that, because he's neither of these things. He hasn’t been attracted to _people_ in years, definitely not since high school, if he ever really was at all. But he’d do it - because he could, and because Daryl would let him, and maybe that’s the gist of it. 

“Ain’t got no type,” Daryl tells him and retrieves a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans. They’re menthol, not anyone’s favorite, but who the fuck gets to be a spoiled brat about it at the end of the world? He pushes one cigarette between those stupid frowny lips of his and lights it, then offers the pack to Rick who decides, _what the hell_ , and picks the one Daryl’s already inhaling smoke from.

“Fucker,” Daryl huffs, returning the earlier insult, but he smirks, amused, and waits before Rick sucks the spicy menthol smoke into his lungs, then takes the cigarette back. 

Rick blows the smoke in his face. “Got word from the prison?” He asks and sighs, the stale nicotine already relaxing him after the long time he’d gone without smoking. His last was after Joe, he thinks, after the Claimers. Stolen off of Daryl as well, though without the dampness of the man’s saliva on the filter. Rick remembers how he sucked on the poison stick eagerly, its bitter taste mixing with the remnants of blood in his throat, before he dropped it on the pile of gasoline-drenched bodies. The pyre burned bright and tall in the night, a reminder to anyone who’d seen it not to ever fuck with Rick Grimes.

Daryl chuckles, ignorant of that particular memory or he wouldn’t have been in such good a mood. He still regrets not having been the one to kill Joe after the guy threatened Rick and his kid. 

“Lots’a words from the prison, yup,” he confirms, closing his eyes as he exhales. “They’d done fixed all trouble with that gang in the woods. Merle wants ya to take yer machete and shove it straight ‘side yer ass, but says the crop’s good, an’ they gon’ go deliver yer half as agreed. Workshop’s dun’ with yer order, too.”

“Good,” Rick hums. “Hilltop’s gonna need the tools, Jesus’ been bitching about it for weeks. How’s Woodbury?”

“Fine, how’d ya think? Ya got Michonne stationed there with Andrea. Between ‘em two, ‘s prob’ly the most secure post ya have.”

“Nah, here’s safer. Got you, after all, the Alexandrian guardian angel,” Rick mocks in good humor. The angel wings vest earned Daryl some renown among their people. They’re all so easily impressed. Show them a man in an appropriately bloodied attire, slap a religious symbol on him and you’ve got yourself a damn avenging angel descended from the heavens to send everyone in his way to Kingdom Come in the name of his God.

“You’re such a piss-poor angel,” Rick says, shaking his head on a chuckle. Daryl looks a little offended at that, which makes Rick snicker more. “Don’t be angry, darlin’. You’re a lousy angel, but you’re my angel. No-one’s fuckin’ with what’s mine.”

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees, deflating, irritation going out of him in waves as he blows out smoke to the heavens above in pretty, swirling ribbons of silver mist that hang heavy in the thick air. His eyes slide closed and his mouth falls open around the low noise of pleasure he makes as the nicotine hits his system. He hums a soft, rumbling melody under his breath as he finishes the cigarette, then puts the stub out on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger right against the jagged, round scars from when he did this numerous times before. Hissing at the sharp pain, he flicks the stub down on the sidewalk.

“Don’t litter on my lawn or I’ll kick your ass,” Rick reprimands him lazily; he ignores the sickly sweet scent of burnt flesh, and he makes no move to make good on the threat. He wonders vaguely what the fuck is wrong with him. It’s not normal, watching someone hurt themselves regularly like that. It’s not normal, but Rick’s supposedly not normal either, so maybe that’s just how he works. It's not that he's broken, not the way Daryl is, not the way the apocalypse broke everyone, bent them so far out of shape they all just snapped clean in half. Rick's made of a different material, flexible and durable, damn near unbreakable; and where everyone else snapped, he allowed himself to be re-molded into something new. He adapted. Now look at the world, look at how he does things, and try to say he's wrong.

Fuck, he might be the only thing in this fucked up world that's actually exactly right.

A particularly strong gust of wind ruffles his curly hair - it’s becoming too long, he’s gotta get Jessie to cut it for him again sometime soon - and brings in a fresh wave of the smell of rotting corpses. It’s nauseating even if everyone is mostly used to the ever-present stench. It’s overpowering, the decay mixed with the humid, heavy air, and Rick thinks he may puke. He doesn’t, though. He turns his head, twists his body just-so, and buries his face in the damp cloth of Daryl’s torn shirt right where the shoulder connects to the neck. The jutting collar bone is hard under his cheek. Rick doesn’t care. He breathes in the heady smell of the other man, easily drowning out the putrid aura of death from the outside world. His mouth fills with the imaginary flavor of sweat and skin, his mind forcing this synesthesia because of the intensity of Daryl’s scent in his lungs. It’s giving him a headache, but it’s a good kind, not the throbbing, pulsating pain he sometimes gets when people annoy him too much, just… a sort of buzzing, vaguely irritating, a reminder that he’s still alive to care about such trivial things.

“Stop sniffin’ me, perv,” Daryl protests mildly but doesn’t even try to do anything about it, like he doesn’t really mind. If anything, he relaxes further, body going lax against the hot surface of the bench. 

“‘m goin’ to lick you,” Rick warns and does exactly that, never allowing Daryl a moment to back away. He swipes his tongue along the length of Daryl’s neck, feeling the man’s heartbeat quicken beneath him as he mouths at the artery under Daryl’s jaw. The taste of him, of his sweat, is disgusting, too salty, kind of sour, not nearly as intense as it should be; Daryl took a shower this morning and there’s the aftertaste of soap on his skin under layers of heat and sweat. Rick both can’t stand it and can’t get enough of it.

“The fuck ya doin,” Daryl huffs, but he moves his head to give Rick better access all the same. He groans breathlessly when Rick’s teeth scrape against a pulse point, and his fingers brush against Rick’s back. He’s still relaxed, still sprawled on the bench like he’s comfortable with anything as long as it’s Rick touching him. Anyone else might’ve already found themselves with a bolt between their eyes or both arms cut right the fuck off, but Rick is allowed this on the simple principle of being Rick. 

If Daryl is an angel, then Rick is his God, his one and only absolute, his reason, his virtue and his vice, his fucking everything. Unashamed, unafraid, Rick drinks in this power over the other man and he pushes at Daryl’s boundaries to see what happens when they snap.

“You gonna stop me?” He asks, bites down on a patch of skin just on the side of Daryl’s neck and feels a curious sense of delight when Daryl gasps out a barely intelligible curse. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, he just follows Rick’s movement with heavy-lidded eyes, breathing entirely too fast. And okay, like this, he’s somewhat pretty, Rick admits; he kinda likes Daryl flushed and disheveled, pressed against him, shirt riding up, jeans sliding low just below jutting hip bones. Smiling, Rick runs his fingers through the light patch of coarse hair just above Daryl’s waistband. He watches the muscles in the man’s abdomen tighten, watches his chest flutter as Daryl exhales heavily. 

“What will you let me do, darlin’?” He murmurs into the other man’s ear and licks the shell of it just to find out what it will cause. Daryl’s eyes slide shut as he makes another breathy noise. It makes Rick laugh, the way Daryl still won’t fight him, the way Daryl just gives in to this as if he’s convinced himself it’s just another service he _owes_ Rick, and maybe it is; maybe it’s Daryl’s duty to prove to Rick he belongs to him by any means necessary, to defer to him, to be owned by him like he’s livestock or a weapon. And oh, he definitely is very much Rick’s own right now, and he’s hot and sweaty under Rick’s wandering hands. The way he doesn’t flinch away from the touch means everything because Rick knows how much self-control it must cost him. Daryl is usually rather violent in reaction to non-consensual touching, even more so after his capture by Negan. To have him lay back, almost completely docile, trembling slightly under Rick’s ministrations - it’s a fucking power trip. Makes Rick want to see how far he can go before Daryl shatters into a thousand little pieces.

“Aren’t you gonna fight me, my fierce angel? Are you just gonna take whatever I give you?” He asks, drawing out the vowels in a soft purr. 

Daryl’s eyes are squeezed tightly closed when he whispers back, “Ain’t ever gon’ fight ya,” and Rick smiles, insanely proud of him for some reason. He decides to reward him, or maybe it’s a reward to himself; he leans over Daryl’s prone form and presses his lips to Daryl’s, swallowing the man’s surprised gasp. It’s a slow, open-mouthed kiss, as playful as it is heated. Rick leads in this like he leads in everything, sure and unwavering, he takes what he wants from Daryl and gives him little choice but to surrender completely. He forces his tongue into the older man’s mouth, although _forces_ might be too strong a word as he meets no resistance; and he tastes the menthol smoke on him, and the bitterness of the beer, and the cool remnant of the sweetness of the fruity-flavored popsicle, and even the pang of saltiness of Daryl’s sweat. It’s good, this strange mix of flavors, it’s nice, Rick enjoys it, wants more of it, even. Takes more, simply because he can take more, he can take anything and Daryl won’t fight him, he said so himself. Rick feels the urge to test it, to see if he can make Daryl try to oppose him after all; he bites down on Daryl’s lower lip, hard and painful, and he steals away the breathy moan that escapes Daryl’s throat in response to the rough treatment.

He pushes his hand up Daryl’s thin sleeveless shirt, rolls the fabric high up Daryl’s chest and keeps it there even as Daryl shifts uncomfortably and tries to cover himself, likely remembering they’re technically in full public view. Rick growls into his mouth and grabs him by the wrists, then pulls his arms up and pins them above Daryl’s head. He doesn’t have to reinforce his point; once he lets go, Daryl obediently keeps his arms just as Rick’s arranged them. Satisfied, Rick placates him by running his hands down the other man’s sides, then up to his chest where he brushes both nipples with his thumbs. It draws the most delicious sound out of Daryl, completely unexpected; Rick didn’t really know nipples could be so sensitive in men, too, his own definitely aren’t. He files it under _useful information about Daryl_ in his mind, and he experiments further on the topic by pinching one nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Daryl makes the same sound again, lewd and sultry, too fucking beautiful for Rick to continue muffling it with his mouth, preventing the whole wide world from hearing it. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs in Daryl’s ear and he’s actually surprised himself because he means it, he really thinks it right here and now. Blushing, sweaty and breathing hard, with his eyes shut, his lips wet, swollen and parted around a soft moan, Daryl makes the prettiest picture Rick’s ever seen in his life. Reasonably, he knows somewhere in the back of his mind that it’s just the tint of arousal talking, but it doesn’t even matter one way or another: he thinks _gorgeous, fucking beautiful_ , and he says so, and Daryl tries to protest. Rick doesn’t listen, though; he trails little kisses and nips down Daryl’s neck, shoulders and chest, once again tasting the sweat on the other man’s skin. It’s intoxicating, much more so than the cigarette smoke, sharper, muskier, just more. Rick bites on the tan, freckled skin, licks one dusty nipple, sucks it into his mouth, then relishes in the soft noises Daryl’s trying so hard not to make. 

“I wanna hear you,” he says against Daryl’s chest, just loud enough to be audible, and he doesn’t do anything else until Daryl mutters a near-silent _okay_. Satisfied, Rick returns to planting caresses on the man’s pecs and lower, leaving scratches with blunt fingernails and trails of saliva with his tongue down Daryl’s abdomen. 

He slides down from the bench, gets to his knees. He grins up at Daryl who’s staring down at him with unfocused eyes. He licks his lips and earns an incoherent moan from the man, followed by a thud as the back of Daryl’s head hits the bench. Curious what other sounds he can elicit from the other man, Rick moves to quickly rid Daryl of his boots. Once they’re gone, he works swiftly and efficiently on removing all the strings, makeshift holsters and random bits of fabric tied around Daryl’s legs. He throws them all in a pile beside the bench, next to the boots. He can feel Daryl’s stormy-blue gaze following his movements from under heavy eyelids. Even in such a state, Daryl’s still got the presence of mind to observe, to assess if there’s any potential danger in the situation he’s in, he’s still the watchful guardian-

Rick wants to rob him of that, too.

He unbuttons Daryl’s jeans and slides them all the way down the man’s legs in one quick motion, then kneels between the muscular thighs Daryl spreads to accommodate him. As expected, Daryl’s not wearing anything under the jeans and Rick greedily takes in the delicious picture of him almost naked, the only piece of fabric left on him being the sleeveless t-shirt rolled up to reveal his chest. Rick shifts and repositions Daryl’s legs, puts them on his shoulders as he leans in to nuzzle his bearded cheek against Daryl’s hip, knowing full well it’s not where the man wants, needs, to be touched. It’s going to feel unpleasant later, the beard-burn on Daryl’s sensitive skin, but Daryl doesn’t care and neither does Rick. He plants his hands on Daryl’s hips, holding him in place as he finally has a good look at Daryl’s dick. 

Rick’s not an expert on cocks, having had no real interest in them beforehand, but even he can tell Daryl’s cock is above average; it’s long and nicely thick, leaning a bit to the left, and of course it’s hard and already leaking. It twitches as Rick keeps looking at it. He sucks a bruise into the skin at Daryl’s inner thigh, watching him, and he’s not really surprised to hear a breathless, desperate moan of his name. It sounds so pretty in Daryl’s low, hoarse voice, and Daryl must be unused to calling out in such sweet pleasure, he tries to silence himself by pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. It makes Rick chuckle and he blows a little warm air onto the flesh of Daryl’s cock which twitches again as the man shudders. 

“Oh, I’ll make you scream,” Rick whispers. Slowly, he licks a long stripe from the bottom of Daryl’s length up to the very tip. The taste of him here is stronger, muskier than the sour flavor of his sweat, and Rick laps at the tip to taste more. Daryl attempts to move his hips, but Rick’s hands hold him steady, pin him to the hot surface of the bench. Daryl’s whole body trembles as Rick continues to lick up and down his cock at a leisurely pace, swiping his tongue along the thick pulsating vein on the underside. He’s in no hurry; for a moment, he even considers abandoning Daryl’s cock for the time being and tracing his lips along the paper-thin, parallel lines of scars all over Daryl’s inner thighs, but he doesn’t: he enjoys the taste too much. He presses a wet little kiss to the tip, then licks away the wetness gathering there. It earns him a barely-muffled groan. Smiling, he nuzzles the straining length and finally opens his mouth. He wraps it around just the tip at first. He gives it a little suck, tightening his grip on Daryl’s hips when he feels the man try to push up into him. Rick’s name falls from Daryl’s lips alongside a string of breathless curses; it’s not nearly loud enough for Rick to feel satisfied. He knows the remedy to this conundrum and he goes for it ruthlessly: without a moment’s hesitation, Rick leans forward and takes all of Daryl’s length in his mouth as far as it can go, until the tip hits the back of his throat and his nose is buried in the coarse dark hairs at the base. And God, the sound Daryl makes, the half-choked cry of _Oh God, Rick!,_ it’s like some fucking angelic music in Rick’s ears. He hums low in his throat, relishing the way the vibration wrings another noise out of Daryl, sob-like and so incredibly lovely. Humming still, Rick pulls away from Daryl’s cock and then descends back on it, swallowing to fight down the gag reflex. And fuck, but choking on Daryl’s hard cock is so incredibly erotic, Rick is surprised to feel himself get a little hard from it too; for a brief moment, he considers wrapping his hand around his own dick and jerking off to the same rhythm he’s employing to blow Daryl, but then, Daryl moans his name again, drawing it out, the quality of his voice a needy near-whine, and Rick’s focus snaps back to the man below him. He loves the taste of Daryl on his tongue, he loves the big cock filling his mouth, he loves the way those powerful thighs tremble, and he loves how Daryl loses all restraint, letting filthy little pleas fall forth from his lips in a breathless stream of moans. It doesn’t take long, not at all, not with the way he’s assaulting Daryl’s senses with his tongue and his mouth and the little humming vibrations; and Daryl tenses all of a sudden, warns him:

“Rick, _Rick,_ ‘m gonna-”

-and Rick groans around him, squeezes his hips so hard he’s pretty sure he’s leaving hand-shaped bruises, and then Daryl’s coming in thick spurts down his throat. Rick swallows as much as he can without choking, then pulls away and licks his lips. Some of the pearly white liquid spills from his mouth into his beard, but he’s not bothered by it in the slightest. He laps at Daryl’s spent cock, chasing the remains of his release before finally pulling away, letting the man’s legs drop from his shoulders.

He throws Daryl his jeans and picks up one of the random scraps of fabric Daryl’s been carrying around. He uses it to wipe his face somewhat clean, then balls it up and dumps it in the trash can. He looks back at Daryl and sees him button up the jeans, then adjust the t-shirt so that his body isn’t on display anymore. For a brief moment, he considers ordering him to just take the clothes off again - damn, who knew Daryl’s that much prettier without his clothes - but ultimately he lets it go. Despite the spectacle he’s made of sucking Daryl’s dick in his own backyard, he finds he doesn’t actually _want_ anyone else to see the other man like he did. Wouldn’t have done it like this if there was the slightest chance of anyone seeing, even. It’s a strange revelation. Something new. He’s never felt possessive over anybody else’s nakedness before, not even his own wife’s.

“Am I your type?” He asks, climbing back up on the bench and stretching out on the hot surface like a pleased cat. His voice is hoarse and his throat is sore, a bit. His jaw aches, which is funny, it’s never hurt before from a blowjob. He’s still hot and miserable to some degree, the beer’s gone warm when he takes a sip, and he feels even more sticky with sweat and the remnants of Daryl’s come on his face, but it’s all fine. The incessant buzzing under his skin has calmed down somewhat, the urge to take and take everything before it’s stolen from him satisfied for the moment as Daryl slides off the bench and settles down on the ground where Rick knelt before, his back pressed against Rick’s hip and thigh. Touching, still touching, like he can’t bear to be parted from Rick just yet. 

“Fuck no,” Daryl says, too fast, too breathless. They both know he’s lying, but Rick doesn’t call him out on it. It doesn’t matter what Daryl says, anyway, his words are meaningless because there are tears in his eyes and his lips are trembling; he’s not crying, he’s not letting himself, but he’s this close to breaking down and Rick’s tempted to let him, just so he can put him back together again like every other time before. 

Daryl pushes a cigarette between his lips and lights it. He inhales a heavy gulp of menthol smoke, then lets it out in a loud and shaky exhale. Rick lets him smoke in silence, but when Daryl makes a move to stub out the cig on his hand again, Rick says:

“No,” and Daryl sighs, but obeys as always, and he squishes the cigarette in the ground next to his feet instead. 

Proud of him, Rick pats him on the arm. Then he says, “Was thinking of sending you back to Atlanta for a while. Eugene’s going out to Grady’s tomorrow, he’s finally setting them up with the radio. You could go with him. I’m sure Beth and the others would be happy to see you. You could even go back and check up on G, see how his guys are doing.”

He watches as Daryl’s hands shake almost imperceptibly, as his fingers close into fists and then spread out again. He likes Daryl’s hands, he decides. They’re big and strong, capable of such exquisite violence, but they can also be so surprisingly gentle. He’s seen those hands mercilessly squeeze the life out of that dumb cop woman who tried to hurt Beth back before Grady’s Hospital fell under Rick’s command like all the other camps before it. He’s also seen the same hands braiding little flowers into Judith’s light brown hair, careful not to crumple the tiny blossoms. They’re good hands. Another pretty thing about this decidedly un-pretty man. Another thing Rick might actually… huh.

“I changed my mind, though,” he says, reaching down and brushing his fingers against the round scorch mark Daryl’s made earlier today. “Aaron can go with Eugene. Hell, he can take Eric, too, they’d been talking about an anniversary coming up for weeks now. Let them have some fun out there.”

“Why?” Daryl asks, sounding distant as he looks down at where Rick is touching him. “Ya dun’ think I can do it?”

“Of course you can do it. You can do anything, darlin’. You’re the only one I actually think could even replace me, if you ever wanted to,” Rick tells him, rolling his eyes. He slides his hand down and entwines his sweaty fingers with Daryl’s. It’s okay, even though their hands are damp and too warm. It feels okay. He’s never held anybody’s hand like this before. Funny. He’s had sex so many times with different people, not out of any need of his own but out of pure necessity, and he mostly felt indifferent about it, like it was happening to somebody else. He’s held people and kissed people, and it’s never been about him in any aspect other than the control it gave him over his partners. This now, though, touching Daryl’s hand, holding it in a warm grasp on a summer afternoon… he’s doing it because he really wants to - and it’s nice.

What a strange, strange new world it’s shaping up to be, this little bubble of emotion he’s carved out of a hot afternoon and forcefully pulled Daryl into.

“Wouldn’t never wanna replace ya,” Daryl mumbles, and his fingers squeeze Rick’s almost as if on reflex.

“I know. But you could,” Rick says warmly. “I don’t want you out there without me, Daryl. Not at Grady’s with Beth. Not at Hilltop with Jesus, Oceanside with Tara, nor the Kingdom with Carol when she decides to relocate. Not even at the prison with Merle.”

“Where d’ya want me, then? Securin’ that new spot for ya in Roanoke?” Daryl asks softly. His breath hitches as he waits for Rick’s answer, like his whole life depends on it. And it does, doesn’t it? Everyone’s lives depend on Rick nowadays. Ever since the farm was lost, ever since Shane’s death. Ever since Rick stepped up and took control of their destiny, so completely fucking done with the idea that their life after the end of the world should continue to be ruled by sentiment, old-world morality and compromise: ever since then, everybody defers to Rick Grimes sooner or later.

Daryl doesn’t realize yet, but he’s the only one who could get away with defying Rick. He’s the only one who could tell him _no_ and live to tell the tale. He knows he’s Rick’s, he’s got no doubt about it, but what he doesn’t know is that Rick is his, too. Rick didn’t know it, either, not before today. Not before he learned what Daryl’s devotion tastes like.

“I want you with me, anywhere I go,” Rick says simply. 

Daryl nods and lets his head fall back to rest on Rick’s thigh on the bench. There’s a bruise on the side of his neck that Rick’s left there. Daryl brushes the fingers of his free hand against it and sighs.

“This… it gon’ happen again?” He asks in a small voice, so unlike him.

Rick hums thoughtfully. “I’ll probably want it to,” he says, truthful. 

He’s pleased to see Daryl nod in acknowledgment. Then, Daryl asks again, “Will ya let me? Touch ya, I mean. Next time.”

Rick thinks about it. 

He thinks about all the times he’d had sex with Lori out of a sense of obligation because she was his wife and she deserved to have a _normal_ sex life with her husband. He only initiated their lovemaking a few times throughout the whole marriage, usually it was all her. Truth be told, he wasn’t surprised when Lori told him about her affair with Shane. He didn’t blame her. She wasn’t even very sexually demanding, just wanted to do it more than once a month. Rick loved her, truly and honestly, but he didn’t desire her - and more than that, he was… somewhat repulsed by her touch at times, to be honest. Not always, but sometimes. He preferred it when Lori let him do all the work and she just lay down to enjoy the ride. Touching worked much better than being touched, and he used to get such a thrill out of giving her pleasure, it was almost enough for them for years. Until it wasn’t.

He thinks about that one time he gave a blowjob to Shane when they were both drunk, and he remembers being grateful when Shane fell asleep before he could reciprocate because, well, Rick wasn’t even hard and it would’ve been. Probably kinda awkward. Still could’ve been, but Shane didn’t seem to have any memory of it the following morning and Rick had his curiosity satisfied: doing it with a man was no more interesting to him than with a woman.

He thinks about other people he tried it with since the end of the world. There weren’t all that many. Back in Atlanta, after securing the settlements in there, he gave G a handjob to reward the man’s loyalty, but that was about it, they haven’t even talked face to face ever since. Jessie doesn’t count, really, she didn’t even get more out of him than a few half-hearted kisses, and maybe that’s for the best because neither of them was really that into the other. She’s good on her own. Then there was Jesus with his pretty face and sassy attitude, and he was still pretty and much less sassy when he was crying out to the God above with Rick’s fingers up his ass and Rick’s mouth around his cock. Afterwards, Rick killed Gregory for him and Hilltop became his without any further bloodshed. Paul Rovia has been Rick’s lieutenant there ever since, so he must’ve liked the finger-fucking well enough. Rick, well, Rick didn’t care one way or another as long as he got another settlement out of it in the end. He didn’t mind touching people, giving them what they needed in exchange for what _he_ needed.

Actually, now that he’s considering it, he did secure some of his most devoted followers by having sex with them; first was G, but he wasn’t the last because then came Rosita with Abraham, then Aaron, Jesus, fuck, even Glenn and Maggie needed the reassurance of Rick’s presence in their bed right after that first battle against Negan when they all thought they lost Daryl. Before that, before Alexandria, Rick’s made sure Michonne and Andrea would always do his bidding back in Woodbury by helping them have a baby, though he actually didn’t even have to go that far, they would’ve been happy to follow him to the end either way. It was probably more of a favor from a friend, in their case. 

So, anyway, yeah. Regardless of how attractive he might be for others or some shit, this whole thing, the touching thing… it’s just never been much of a thrill for him, before the end of the world or afterwards. Sex, to Rick, is a tool, has always been a tool. To pretend to be normal for the woman he loved with all his heart. To gain the trust and loyalty of the people he needs in order to keep his position as their leader. To help friends out. It’s never been for him. He’s never really done anything remotely sexual for any non-utilitarian reasons. 

Until Daryl, just moments ago. He didn’t need to have sex with Daryl to win his loyalty, he already had it regardless. He didn’t do it because he thought he’d get something useful in return. He did it simply because he wanted to, and he knew Daryl wouldn’t ask, but also wouldn’t refuse. He thinks about how he got hard while sucking Daryl off, how a flare of arousal shot through him at having the older man at his mercy like that, and this - it’s so different from everything he’s ever done with other people. So when he meets Daryl’s eyes and sees the insecurity in them, the astounding lack of self-confidence in the man without whom he wouldn’t have survived a damn day in this world, Rick decides.

“Yeah,” he says softly and brings their joined hands up so he can kiss Daryl’s knuckles. “Yeah, I’ll let you touch me next time.” 

There’s a rumble of thunder in the distance, the wind picks up and carries with it a refreshing air of coolness. Rick feels goosebumps on his skin and hums softly, letting his thumb gently caress the back of Daryl’s hand, steering clear of the recent burn. He takes a sip of his lukewarm beer and wonders how long until the storm reaches Alexandria. He’s in the mood to sit out here in the rain, shirtless and sweaty. Maybe Daryl will stay out with him, too. They could kiss in the rain. Rick’s always wanted to do that. Not with Daryl, with Lori, but she wasn’t one for grand romantic shit like kissing in the rain. Daryl… well. He’ll go with whatever Rick wants. Even some dumb romantic Hollywood shit. 

As if he knows Rick’s thinking about him, Daryl sighs, then licks his lips. He asks, “Wha-what’s it mean, to you?” and it’s so strange to see him nervous like this, the man everybody admires and fears at the same time for what he does under Rick’s command reduced to a blushing, stuttering fool in the wake of Rick’s undivided attention on him.

“Everything,” Rick tells him softly. “Nothing, too,” he admits, nuzzling Daryl’s injured hand. “Hey. I feel something when I’m with you,” he confesses a bit helplessly. “You’re the only anchor I have left. Nobody else but you. So, yeah. You’re everything, you mean everything.”

“I love you, y’know,” Daryl says, and his voice is vibrating with the emotional strain of admitting it to himself, to Rick, to the world. This is it, Rick thinks, this is what he’s wanted to find all along. The final boundary, the breaking point, the fucking edge of the cliff. Inadvertently, or maybe intentionally, Daryl’s revealed his greatest vulnerability, the weakness, the manner in which Rick can destroy him beyond the possibility of repair. There’s no turning back, not from this, they can’t ever recover from this: what Rick does now, what he says, what he chooses, it’s going to be the game changer. For Daryl, for what’s between them. For Rick, too, and, yeah. 

Yeah.

Rick smiles, closing his eyes as he leans back against the burning hot surface of the park bench in his backyard. He stares at the clear sky above and hums thoughtfully when he sees the bright ribbon of lightning slicing across the blue expanse. There are storm clouds rolling from the east, dark blue mixed with ashy gray, the color of Daryl’s eyes. Rick looks back down at Daryl and licks his lips. Softly, reverently, he assures: “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try a darker Rick who takes over shit instead of trying to find a place to settle down. Funny, but it turned into a sort of fix-it fic even though Rick's a murder happy psycho in it. Basically, in this canon-divergent thing, the "Ricktatorship" went far beyond what it was in the show. Rick's people created a network of settlements and most of them actually survived. Merle's in charge of the prison, Michonne and Andrea govern over Woodbury, Beth is top dog at Grady's Memorial Hospital. Glenn and Maggie are gonna get that new place near Roanoke once it's secured. You know. I made lots of notes for this even though the plot of this story is all just an excuse to write porn.
> 
> Please note Rick's asexuality in this story is based on my own, and as such it's not meant to offend anyone. The asexuality spectrum is a complex thing and asexual people can have sex, they can even want to have sex. It basically differs from person to person. 
> 
> Also, I don't know why I'm always writing Rick blowing Daryl and not the other way around... poor Daryl, he wants to touch but I never let him. Gotta do something about it...
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr, I'm most--curiously--blue--eyes there :)


End file.
